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Where Was I The Night Of The 25th...?
Gaelic groves
shawl your swollen
irises - dense - dead
& darkly deep;
Wintered Zion
polar nights
of pine
wreath like ice
'round a new solstice moon
Matching actually...
My mom's fake tree,
no spruce-y
scent for me
I'll wear
nothing,
'cept your emerald T...
...make it easy...
Sloe & honey hair
spike 2 shots
of gin
gumming my mousey
mind
each time you walk near
Gutter lights
trace the house's
rambling ranch frame
like some kind of
flashing
flaxen lace
Your palms
line these
tenderly clammy
flushing in company
with the wallheater's
blush
when we become bare
~
It was not
& entirely was
the end of nights
that you weren't
mine
***
Our anniversary is on the 26th, and I remember Christmas...so well.
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